


Things you didn't say at all

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, Agent Texas finds Agent South Dakota.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things you didn't say at all

Later, after the fight's over, after Carolina's been hauled off to Medical like so much damaged equipment, after they've all stood around in the hallway not talking about the way the advanced aggressive computer programs implanted in their brains had simultaneous meltdowns triggered by Tex's name, after the days of bedside vigils --a death watch by any other name-- and Connie's message and Wash's disastrous implantation; after all of that, Agent Texas finds Agent South Dakota.

She's in the locker room, armouring up for training. Tex wonders if South intends to take Carolina's place in exhaustive late night perfectionism. Tex stares at the dented locker where her own name plate has yet to be replaced. She'd never found it strange that she rarely used the locker room, but looking back it's an obvious incongruity. Even now her mind shies away from anything that might suggest her true origins, but she pushes through the programming? Ruthlessly, studies every facet of her existence like pushing on a bruise.

It doesn't take much. Tex comes unarmoured and hoping to be disarmed and with a hundred thoughts screaming at breakneck speed around and around in her head. She tucks her thumbs in her back pockets and leans against the locker across from South and she might not be a skilled manipulator like CT but it's not hard to push the right buttons when they're mapped out in bright red blinking lights. A couple jabs at her skill level in comparison to North, an offhand remark about liabilities getting team-mates killed, platitudes regarding South's lack of AI that are so blatantly disingenuous as to become mockery. When South slams a palm into the locker just beside Tex's head and the hard edge of her forearm up under her chin it jolts down Tex's nerves like an electric shock, like a spark after a winter of cold. South's taller than her. She's never considered this, never really had opportunity to stand pressed up against the other woman and feel the way her hipbones dig into that tender place over the muscles of her waist, never had to tip her head back to meet eyes like the sky on a winter morning. It's easy to push up and kiss her, to bight until she tastes blood and the cheap chemical strawberry of her lipgloss, to keep pushing and pushing until her throat feels bruised from the pressure of South's arm trying to hold her back. Tex has never tasted strawberries.

"Fuck you," South says, and kicks Tex's legs apart. Tex laughs low.

"Not unless you keep more than a change of clothes in that locker."

South stares down at her, strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and forehead messily. She's only wearing an obnoxiously bright purple sports bra, and her arms and shoulders are a kaleidoscope of shitty tattoos and bruises in various states of freshness. Tex knows her own skin is unmarked, a blank landscape of unblemished, unchanging material, like fresh paper folded crisp around a package. She doesn't bruise.

South uses her free hand to drag Tex's shirt up and over her head, only dropping the arm across her throat when it gets in the way of the fabric. When Tex emerges she moves to push South's undersuit the rest of the way off, but South bats her hands away, yanking the slick black fabric roughly down over her legs and stretching it over her boots, leaving them on. It looks kind of ridiculous. Kind of hot. South's underwear matches her bra, and the tattoos and bruising continue down across her hips and more sparsely populate her legs, splashes of faded colour under the barely visible stubble of white blond hair.

"So fucking perfect," South sneers, and leans in to bight hard and deliberate at the juncture of neck and shoulder, almost hard enough to break skin. At the same time, she undoes the button on Tex's pants and shoves her hand in, ragged nails snagging on the skin of her inner thighs as South pushes the pants down far enough to give her space to work. It's not really a good kind of hurt, but it's still something and Tex reaches up to pop the clasp on South's' bra in reward.

"Come on," Tex says, smirking. "You gonna mess me up? That what you wanna do?"

South pushes two fingers up into her without warning, too dry and tight. "Shut the fuck up," she says. "You think their aren't security cameras in here?"

Tex hadn't really thought about it, but the way that South laughs a little under her breath when she pulls back to look at Tex means that she has. She curls her fingers inside of Tex, pressing the heal of her hand up against her clit and just holding there, pressing up just on the edge of too hard. With her other hand she cups one of Tex's breasts, lifting it a bit and pinching the nipple hard between two fingers. Tex's pants give in to gravity and slip down her legs to pool around her ankles and she is suddenly sharply aware of the air over the smooth skin of her legs, the dull sick realization that she'd never thought to shave them but they're smooth and hairless anyway.

She tips her head back and thinks about the possibility of the cameras, feels the rough calluses on South's fingers drag against the fragile skin exposed under her breast, and wants to climb right out of her body and melt away into the wires and signals running through the ship. She presses herself back hard against the locker, feels the metal dig sharp into her shoulders, feels the way her ribcage contracts as she recoils from the wide empty space of the lockerroom. South steps in closer and somehow it's a relief. Tex grabs her wrist, her hand wider, her blunt fingers with their tidy short nails wrapping around South's narrow wrist with the ink running over the skin and blood running underneath, pulls her hand away from her breast, relocates it to brace against the locker beside her shoulder so South's body partially cages her in, hot skin and sharp breaths and the smell of sweat overlaid by something sweet and citrus all wrapping around her.

"Ok, fuck this," South says, pulling her fingers out of Tex and wiping them on her hip. "Turn around."

Tex doesn't argue. The fear of showing your back to someone comes from a belief that you can be taken by surprise, that you can be beaten. Tex doesn't particularly have these fears. Not here. Not in a physical fight. She lets South crowd up against her back, skin on skin, one leg tucking between hers. South slips one hand back between her legs, wrist bumping up awkwardly against the locker, pressing firmly up against her and rubbing briskly, almost seeming to hit her clit by coincidence. Her other hand strokes up over Tex's stomach, across her ribs and over her chest, same firm pressure over her breast but not lingering, until she settles her hand up against Tex's shoulder, arm wrapping across her chest. Tex bristles at the unspoken kindness, bucks back and twists to bight at South's shoulder, at whatever she can reach. South swears under her breath, drops the arm across her chest to yank one of Tex's arms up behind her back, giving her decent leverage to hold Tex down against the locker. There's no pain in the pull of muscles, no strain on her shoulder. She tries to let more weight pull her arm up higher, shifts a little desperately in the tight spaces between South's' body and the locker. Metal scrapes against her skin and at her back south is hot and damp and sharp edges and Tex doesn't know what panic looks like with no pulse pounding in her ears, no breath short in her chest, but she knows the way her body twists and thrashes under South's hands and the way all she wants to do is lash out, push for a reaction. South leans more of her weight onto Tex, unrelenting pressure until she can barely move, until her frustrated struggles for the right angle, for more or different and sharper are stilled and she can only accept what South gives her-- quick firm strokes between her legs, a strong hand around her wrist, the press of the other woman's body over her back as counterpoint to the cold metal of the lockers down her front and against her cheek. There is a part of Tex that knows, distant and calm, that it would take barely any effort at all to break South’s hold if she really wanted to. She ignores it. South shifts her thigh between Tex's, and there's the scrape of cloth where she rubs herself against Tex's hip, uncoordinated and awkward. She leans in, digs her chin into Tex's shoulder hard. Her hair falls forward over Tex's cheek, purple and blond obscuring her vision.

"Not so fucking different after all," South says. "You'll spread your legs for a pretty girl like anybody else, weak to wanting just like the rest of us."

There's no way South can know the full impact of her words, no way she can understand the white noise of Tex's brain that slowly begins to clear as she speaks. Tex shifts her feet a bit so she's got a bit of traction to push back on South's fingers.

"You'd know all about being weak to wanting, wouldn't you," Tex says, and she's pleased at the way her voice comes out bored and a little amused even as she feels like she's shattering apart.

South snarls something wordless, digs her teeth into Tex's shoulder to match the bight on the other side. Tex watches the powerful muscles in her upper arm work as her fingers push back faster and rougher between Tex's legs, and Tex doesn't know how to tell her it's OK to push back inside-- doesn't know if that desire comes out of wanting pleasure or wanting hurt. Hates how South can read her so easily, hates the exposed feeling of their legs brushing together, the soft skin of her hands resting against the locker. The way South's holding her pinned, her entire torso is flattened uncomfortably against the locker, and doesn't know how to articulate the gratitude of not looking down, of not feeling the shifts and pulls of physics on her body.

"There's nothing special about you," South hisses, and Tex thinks this has to be about something deeper than competition, thinks she's missing something in South's burning resentment. She can feel the places where South's teeth have left imprints, if not marks, in her skin, and when she comes South anchors her through it, releasing her hold on Tex's wrist to yank her head back with a grip on her ponytail so her head rests tipped back on South's' shoulder in a parody of trust and intimacy.

South pulls away after, leaves one hand spread firm between Tex's shoulders until Tex gets herself together enough to start peeling herself off the lockers and straightening up. Tex is pretty damn sure South didn't get off, but when she offers South's warning glare is cold and bitterly dangerous. Tex gets dressed in silence as South assembles her armour around her body. Above them, the leaderboard glows silently.


End file.
